A/N: Written sort of for the 2008 sshg_exchange. I can be honest six years after the fact: I had already written the first three chapters of this story years earlier. When I was wrestling with the exchange prompt (and failing), I dug this out and retooled it to more or less fit. Credit goes to an old friend, as a result, for coming up with both the title and the summary. The original story was meant to be much funnier (and longer), but needs must…
Summary: A post-DH situation comedy about beer, gun-wielding maniacs, and Snape’s cock.
Rating: This story contains foul language and dirty jokes among consenting adults. Also may waver between funny and stupid. Rate accordingly.
Disclaimer: Erm, yeah. Duh, folks.
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Seven Habits of Highly Hateful People
Rule Zero: Disbelief is a luxury one often cannot afford
“Snape had the biggest cock Granger had ever seen, but she had no idea why he was keeping a pet chicken.”
Ron wrinkled his nose. “Four out of ten for implausibility.”
“Two out of ten for sheer disgusting-ness,” Hermione said, shaking her head.
“Is that even a word?” Malfoy asked with a wide grin.
In response, Hermione merely threw a bottle cap in his general direction.
Sitting straight up, he wrapped protective hands around his glass. “Hey!” he cried. “Be careful.”
“So,” Ron said, ignoring them as he ponderously made a few notes on the piece of parchment beside his mostly-empty glass of ale. “That’s three points for our Malfoy, bringing him up to eighteen. Who’s next?”
“Don’t see why it’s only three,” Malfoy muttered, looking irritated. “It’s true.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, draining the remaining contents of her bottle in a single swig. “I assure you, Malfoy,” she said with a slight hiccup, “I have no interest in Snape’s… erm…”
“Bits and pieces?” Ron supplied with an unhelpful grin. “One-eyed trouser snake? Meat and potatoes? Pulsating python of—“
“Ron!” she practically shouted, rising unsteadily in an effort to appear more menacing.
Malfoy wrapped long, thin fingers around her forearm and gave an ungentle tug. “Will you cut it out?” he hissed. “I’m tired of getting thrown out of pubs on account of you two. Besides… meat and potatoes?”
With a diffident shrug, Ron slouched back in his chair and picked up his glass. “Off the top of my head, mate. As if you could do any better.”
Before Malfoy had a chance to respond, Hermione yanked her arm out of his grasp and gave him a sound thump in the back of the head. “Don’t,” she said fiercely. “Or someone whose last name rhymes with Ralfoy will wind up sleeping in the gutter for the next week or so.”
“You people are truly pathetic,” he said, sounding relatively unconcerned. “I don’t know why I continue to put up with you.”
“There are plenty of empty tables over there,” Hermione told him, arm waving toward the other end of the pub. “Be my guest.”
Ron sighed and covered his face with one of his hands. “Come on, love, don’t be like this. Else he won’t chip in his third of the rent, and you’ll hex him again.”
Scowling, Hermione sat back down in her chair so forcefully that it teetered backwards a bit. “Whose turn is it, then? Yours or mine again?”
“Mine,” he said, rubbing his hands together with apparent glee. “And it’s the one you’ve been waiting for all night. Been saving the best for last. Here goes…” With an expectant look on his face, Ron cleared his throat. “Malfoy was not enjoying stroking Hermione’s dripping pussy and wished that she had not let her cat go outside while it was raining.”
She sighed. “Four points for the obvious pussy reference. Really, Ron, I thought we’d evolved a bit.”
Making a face, Malfoy rolled his eyes. “One point for execrably poor taste in jokes. Granger’s cat is dead.”
“Hey!” Ron protested, putting his glass back on the table with a clinking noise. “You’re the one who insinuated that a man who likely eats small children for supper has a pet chicken!”
“He does,” Malfoy said smugly. “If you don’t believe me, why don’t you go knock on his door and ask?”
Ron was silent, folding his arms over his chest and scowling.
“I believe that averages out to two more points for you, Weasley. Oh, no…” he said, all false sympathy. “Only seventeen points. And it’s the end of the round, too.” Malfoy’s smile was extremely unpleasant.
“Since when do one and four average out to two?” Ron asked, cheeks tinged an ominous shade of pink.
“Since you decided that we round to even, idiot,” he retorted.
As Ron’s cheeks darkened from pink to red, Hermione decided it would be best to intervene. “We could just split the tab tonight,” she heard herself say, as if from an enormous distance.
Malfoy rounded on her furiously. “If that… weasel made me pay for his half-dozen martinis last week for failing to come up with something adequately disgusting to describe the act of self-gratification, he’s bloody well going to pick up the check this time ‘round.”
“It’s fine,” Ron said through grit teeth, digging around in his pockets and coming up with a handful of coins. “He’s right.”
Hermione released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“Although it feels like me and cock-boy over there are the ones that always wind up paying,” he continued, sorting through the pile to come up with enough to cover the tab and a tip. “How come it seems like you always win, Hermione?”
With a wide grin, she leaned over the table and patted his head condescendingly. “Oh, that one’s easy. You and Malfoy always wind up spending so much time arguing that I can figure out what I’m going to say ages in advance.”
Malfoy groaned. “Even when she’s drunk, she’s an insufferable little swot.”
“Bite me, Malfoy,” she said lightly, favoring him with a saccharine smile.
“Oh, you wish.”
“No thanks,” she told him, still polite, “I don’t think I could afford the cost of the ritual cleansing I’d require afterward.”
“Well, as lovely as this is,” Ron interrupted, giving an exaggerated sigh, “some of us would prefer to get to bed some time before dawn. You know: making a living? Buying Malfoy’s beer? Putting a roof over your miserable heads?”
Rolling her eyes, Hermione punched him in the arm.